“Are you awake?” asked Simutis.
Garšva blinked.
“Good. I spared you. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear. You spared me.”
“Good. Now listen. You were walking along May 1st Street. You wanted to cross to the other side. You can’t remember anything else. Repeat what I said.”
“I was walking along May 1st Street. Wanted to cross to the other side. Can’t remember anything else.”
“Correct. You were hit by a bus. Understood?”
“Understood. I was hit by a bus.”
“Good. When you recover, you’ll continue to write.”
“Good. I’ll write.”
“I like you. I got carried away. But… I think it’ll do you good. I think you’ll be one of us. Get better. Write.”
Simutis and the man in the white coat left. Beyond the fence a car started. Garšva touched his head. It was bandaged.
…
Antanas Garšva recovered. He was left with a winding scar on his crown. He began to write a long article, “Humanism in Soviet Literature”, but never completed it. The Germans invaded Lithuania. For about two years Garšva worked at a publishing house. He did copy-editing and no longer wrote.
First his father died. He would pick his nose for hours, not saying a word, then, later, began moaning. He was taken to hospital. His father died of bladder cancer, but only after a lengthy struggle, because he had a strong heart. The surveyor and his wife moved out. Antanas Garšva ended up alone.
Peace gradually enveloped him. He forgot which day or hour it was. He would fall asleep at the table. He ignored his fellow writers’ queries. And then, one day, he stopped going to the publishing house.
His colleagues brought a doctor to see him. The doctor decided: Garšva is not dangerous, he doesn’t need to be taken to the hospital. The doctor occasionally visited from the city, as did some of the writers, carrying meagre parcels of food, or money that couldn’t buy anything. Garšva began to speak again. In a brief, condensed way. The doctor and the writers decided: Garšva will recover.
It was early autumn, and he would wander around the garden. Often he would pick a leaf from a cherry tree and stare at it for a long time. It was a map. He was searching for lost territories in the leaf of a cherry tree.
The veins in a cherry leaf – a stone wall as solid as a Roman senator’s nose. Surrounded by grass. Caesar knelt, writing on a tablet. Gallia omnis est divisa in partes tres.⁵⁷ The barbarians placed wreaths on their heads. Green ones. It was a celebration. Where? By the sea. Lole? Lepo. Eglelo? Lalo. You are right, ancient Aestus.⁵⁸ Spend hours staring at your Baltic Sea. At a leaf from a cherry tree. And with as little emotion as possible. “Wrapped broadly in the western waves” – not for me.⁵⁹ Short, crooked pines by the sea. Sap slithers down the trunk, the sand, and the waves carry off the sap. A precious stone in Venetian lace. A Roman senator holds a piece of amber in his palm. “It is more beautiful than gold,” says the senator, because the chests are filled with sesterce, and there is only one piece of amber. Augo? Ridij. Skambino? Palo. Ancient Aestus, musical Aestus, show me your own tree, the one you prayed to. Does it command? No. Does it comfort? Yes. Look at the smoke rising to the sky, at the wisp of grass, at the soaring bird. At the cherry leaf. You can.
Garšva often had diarrhoea. He would run to the wooden outhouse – his father had carved a lopsided heart in the door. Garšva would sit there, staring at a heart-shaped patch of sky.
“Flood my breast with your chilly wave,” he would recite.⁶⁰ And would think to himself that he should finish the poem he had shredded and tossed into the Nemunas. But he didn’t have the strength. They were only words. Lalo, ancient Aestus, the Roman nose, skambinoj, sky, amber. Within a month the doctor had cured his diarrhoea.
…
Ženia arrived one evening, tidy, not much aged, as is often the case with petite women.⁶¹ Garšva was sitting in the veranda. A small pile of acacia branches lay on the bench. He was holding one of the branches, picking off the leaves and tossing them, like someone playing “loves me, loves me not”.
“Hi there, handsome,” said Ženia. “I heard you were sick. One of your friends mentioned it.”
Garšva grinned, and continued to pick the leaves in silence. Ženia put her bag on the table.
“I’ve brought some butter, bacon and eggs. I haven’t forgotten you, handsome.”
“That’s great,” said Garšva.
“Nice place. Can I take a look inside?”
“Go ahead,” Garšva offered.
A few minutes later, Ženia returned.
“Not bad. It needs a cleaning.”
“Go ahead,” Garšva agreed, pruning the last branch. Ženia gently stroked Garšva’s neck.
“Can I move in with you? You’re alone, right?”
“Yes, alone. But I don’t have much to eat.”
“Don’t you worry. We’ll make ourselves some food.”
“We’ll make ourselves some.”
“I think this place will do,” she said, as though to herself.
“Oh yes, it’ll do,” agreed Garšva.
“Do you know what?” asked Ženia, surprised.
“What?”
“What I’m thinking?”
“I’m guessing it’s something nice?”
Ženia looked at Garšva carefully.
“Say – one.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Two.”
“How much is two times two?”
“Four?”
“And twelve plus fifteen?”
“Twenty-seven? Are you studying arithmetic?”
“It looks like you’re ok,” Ženia concluded. Then suddenly leaned towards him and whispered, “Say: I am Antanas Garšva.”
“I am Antanas Garšva. Always was and always will be. Forever and ever, Amen,” whispered Garšva.
“You’re almost fine. I’ll make some eggs.”
That night Garšva remembered things he had forgotten. He slept with Ženia, and devoured four eggs and bacon for breakfast.
On the second day of her stay, Ženia revealed why she was there. It was evening and a full, yellow moon hung over Artillery Park. The acacias infused the warm fall air. The dried-out veranda bench creaked. A few slices of bread and some butter lay on the table. Ženia got up and began to clear the table. When she had placed everything on a wooden tray, she spoke, “Turn on the light.” Garšva pressed the button. Ženia wiped the tabletop.
“I’m opening my business tomorrow,” she announced.
“You’re setting up a shop? Don’t bother. There aren’t any goods these days, and shoppers won’t visit such a remote place.”
Ženia’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Are you really crazy, or do you just act like you are?”
“Sometimes I think I’ve always been this way.”
Garšva turned away from her. He stared at the full moon through the glass panes of the veranda.
“Listen, handsome. I’m still in the same business.”
“Oh,” said Garšva, staring at the full moon. It sat on the chimney of the barracks lock-up, looking like a stick person drawn by a child.
“Listen – I want to do some business here. We’ll both make some money.”
“You’ll pay rent?”
“You’ll be well fed, I’ll keep you clothed, and you won’t have to pay me.”
“A heavenly proposition.”
“So you agree?”
“And what kind of clientele are you aiming for?”
“Germans. Don’t worry, I don’t service regular soldiers. My brand is rising.”
Garšva laughed.
“My friend the baker is director of a tobacco factory. Members of the corps de ballet are distributing apartments and issuing orders for materials. A clarinettist from Bremen is conducting Handel. A musician from the town of Bremen. He told me about how one farmer traded flour for a piano and now spends
the entire day banging out a dance tune with one finger. Russian prisoners of war are clearing his fields. I recently read about this kind of scene in a weekly paper. The description contained multiple uses of the words ‘someone’ and ‘for some reason’. What rank of officer do you service?”
“You’re seriously crazy,” said Ženia, sadly.
“Get out,” said Garšva calmly.
“You ate my bacon and eggs, and now you tell me to get out!” growled Ženia.
“There’s a gold-plated cigarette case in my room. Take it and get out,” Garšva said even more quietly.
The full moon floated away from the chimney. A heavenly Picasso had shattered the naive harmony. Cool air was forcing its way in through the open window. Garšva closed it shut. He wanted to say “Get out” one more time, but the calm that had wrapped itself around him was stronger. Garšva smiled, like the childish moon hanging over Artillery Park.
“I’m going to write a good poem,” he said gently.
“I’m starting to understand transcendence. The mist. The mist off the town marsh. The misty polyphonies. The mist in my head. Real mist. Mist gives birth to the word, it’s a phonetic mist… and what do you think, Ženia? I’ll use the marshes, I’ll use the pensive Christ, I’ll use lo eglelo, I’ll use – what else should I use? Eh, Ženia?”⁶²
“Crazy idiot,” whispered Ženia.
“What else should I use, what else should I grab? Eh, Ženia?”
“Why don’t you grab your… ,” she snapped and went inside. Garšva went out. He forgot about the full moon, which had glided over his house. The chimney of the barracks lock-up rose up straight, like a regular chimney. Garšva broke off an acacia branch.
Ženia stayed. She installed a wood stove in the veranda and hung army blankets on the windows. Two more girls moved into Garšva’s house: fair-haired, cheerful, buxom. It was a model bordello. Drunken songs echoed. The Germans were happy to drive to the countryside. Garšva’s literary colleagues ended up on the gravel road when they tried to liberate him. Ženia would bring her clients into the veranda and explain, in her broken German:
“He is a famous Lithuanian poet. The Bolsheviks tortured him horribly. They hit him on the head with a hammer, slowly, until he turned into an idiot. But he isn’t dangerous. He even writes. He is grateful to the German army … for the liberation.”⁶³
The clients would scrutinise the smiling Garšva and offer him cognac. Garšva would drink, say “Ich danke Ihnen recht schoen” and shake their hands.⁶⁴ Then he would explain that Ženia and the German army had rescued him from squalor and that he was perfectly happy because he was free to meditate on transcendence. He would write an important book. It would contain a cycle of poems celebrating the glorious German army and its brilliant leader. He was a follower of the greatest mystic – Friedrich Nietzsche.
The customers agreed that Garšva was an intelligent madman and paid Ženia a higher fee, or brought impressive packages of food. “We are not Ivans – we are cultured people,” they would say.
The bordello was shut down unexpectedly. One of the girls stole a sergeant major’s gold watch. Ženia and the girls were thrown into prison, and Garšva’s colleagues had him admitted to hospital.
…
Garšva remembered distinctly the clear winter morning on which he fully regained consciousness. He woke up and glanced at the floor. It was scattered with green leaves. Garšva looked out the window. Thick snow blanketed the roofs. And beyond, white-capped Kaunas Cathedral. Garšva understood that he was in a hospital room. It was long, narrow, brown-walled. A metal bed, a little table, and a window – covered in a grate. Garšva threw off the blanket and sat up in the bed. He stroked his striped pyjamas. Then he picked up a leaf from the floor. It was made of paper. On the table lay thin wires with bits of green paper wound into them. Imitating tree branches. Garšva found the bell and pressed it. A nurse entered the room, a tall, older woman with the face of a nun.
“Good morning,” said Garšva.
“Good morning, Mr Garšva.”
Garšva was still holding a paper leaf.
The nurse was observing him searchingly.
“What does this mean?”
“It’s your favourite occupation.”
“I’ve been picking leaves from these wires?”
“A lot of the time. Occasionally, you wrote.”
“Can I take a look?”
The nurse opened the drawer of the little table and pulled out several pages of close handwriting. Garšva took them. He read, and the nurse stood watching him. He read out loud:
“Lole palo bitch gravel
Sio Se Senator’s fate
No? A leaf has a colour
No? You are mistaken, madam.”
“Was I like this… for a long time?”
“Quite a while. Several months.”
“Could I speak to the doctor?”
“Right away.”
The nurse left. Garšva got up. A pocket mirror flashed in the open drawer. Garšva looked at himself. His hair had been shorn. A long winding scar ran down from the top of his head. Garšva saw a grey face, a few days’ stubble, unfamiliar lines around his mouth, a sagging chin. A doctor entered the room. A round, angelic face, slicked back hair, attractive in his clean coat.
“How are you feeling, my dear colleague?”
“I’m… not a doctor,” said Garšva, and placed the papers and mirror in the drawer.
“But I… am a poet. You have inspired me. You’ve been reciting folk songs. I return to the manor and meet an old woman carrying two bright candles,” recited the doctor, like a high-spirited police chief acting in the play The Murderer’s Son.
“How do you feel?” he asked, now more seriously.
Garšva swept his hand across his pyjamas.
“There’s a veranda, yes, the veranda of a summer cottage, a full moon, this girl, a German soldier with a bottle and… I think I’m saying something about Nietzsche.”
Garšva laughed suddenly. Then continued, apologetically.
“Oh, forgive me, doctor. A delayed reaction. You addressed me as your colleague. I understand, I had lost my senses. And how are you feeling?”
“I like you today,” the doctor exclaimed cheerfully. “But call me Doctor Ignas. That’s what everyone here calls me.”
A month later Garšva was released. And when the Bolsheviks returned to Lithuania, he fled to Germany.
*
The elevator goes up, the elevator goes down. Not all of his memories return. A partial amnesia remains. The polyphonies and the nightingale have travelled to the depths of his unconscious. The spring snow has melted. No more footprints in the steaming earth. But a new craving to retrieve the damp fragrance of the acacias, the nightingale, the ancient signs. I am like a scientist who has lost his formulae. And I don’t want to write a popular pamphlet. I must start again. Wait for a winter consciousness, for snow.
I want to go back to that evening in Aukštoji Panemunė, to the veranda. I need geometric mercy. Mysticism. Judgment.
We gather in the Valley of Josaphat. I arrive in a blue bus. It’s good that it’s blue. That’s a sign of hope. The driver won’t answer my questions, but I don’t mind, it’s best not to speak to bus drivers. I’m not being shown the passing sights. The windows of the bus are opaque. And the driver is blocked off by black fabric. Finally, we stop. I get off. The bus drives away.
The Valley of Josaphat is paved in cement and enclosed by a stone wall. It is the size of a room. A gate opens in the wall and three judges enter the valley. They are wearing judges’ robes, their parchment faces set off by white wing collars. The middle one opens a thick book and begins.
“Your name?”
“Antanas Garšva.”
“Profession?”
“Poet and unsuccessful earthling.”
“Your worldview?”
“Unarticulated.”
“What was the worldview you were born into?”
“Fo
rmally, the believers’ one, but…”
“No comments, please,” interrupts the judge.
“Did you follow the commandments?”
“It’s possible that I didn’t follow them in strict terms, but…”
“Comments are unnecessary,” the judge interrupts again.
“Did you follow the commandments as you were taught them?”
“It appears not.”
“Very well. According to paragraph eight you are slated for liquidation. Thank you for your replies.”
“Could you please tell me what it says in paragraph eight?”
“It’s a rather long paragraph. In short: anyone who failed to follow the commandments is liquidated. For example. The faithful – those for the faithful, atheists – those for atheists, liars – those for liars, murderers – those for murderers, cowards – those for cowards, moralisers – those for moralisers. And those who followed the commandments are transferred to Heaven.”
“I followed the commandments for seekers.”
Now the three judges laugh rhythmically. Like members of an opera chorus.
“There is no such category in the Valley of Josaphat.”
“Forgive me. One more question. Why was I brought here in a blue bus? That colour inspires hope.”
But the judges can’t answer in time. Antanas Garšva is already at the bottom, the door opens, and there is the starter.
“Listen, Tony,” he says sternly. “What did you do to the chinchillas?”
An elderly man and woman stand to the side. The cross-eyed old man holds a small wooden cage. One of the slats is broken, and a pointy-nosed chinchilla sticks its head out, greedily sniffing the old man’s fingers, while its mate sleeps rolled up in a little ball, perfectly calm. The old lady stares at Garšva as though he had tried to murder her grandchildren.
“They say that up on the eighteenth you slammed the door shut too quickly, shattered the cage, and almost killed the chinchillas!”
“That’s right, O’Casey, I damaged the cage, because this gentleman entered the elevator and then, inexplicably, turned around and tried to exit. At that moment the door closed and the cage suffered some damage. The chinchillas, I believe, are fine, though the fellow got a little spooked. But his beloved is sleeping quite peacefully. It seems that, like most men, he’s the more anxious one.”
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